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August 24, 1998

The vultures were waiting that evening—dozens of them riding the thermals high above his head, elegant and still as leaves on water, reflecting a ragged, wheeling crown around the dark form in the pond. Others had settled in the spindly cottonwoods that ringed the shore—so many that the branches sagged under their weight and the ground beneath the trees was painted white with their droppings. They were used to him now. As he emerged through the dry grass with the pack slung over his shoulder, they barely glanced his way but remained focused on their business, hissing and jostling one another for position, close enough that he could see the dust on their wings and the skin of their naked heads, as red and wrinkled as burned flesh.

The birds had been gathering for days. Unable to reach their prize and unwilling to leave it, they eyed him coolly, patiently, during his daily visits. But today was different. They sensed it. As he unzipped his pack and sat to pull on the waders, the vultures ruffled their heavy wings, and when he clambered back to his feet, fumbling to adjust the shoulder straps, a few let out hoarse, expectant croaks.

He picked up the bolt cutters and edged down the bank. In the hoof-pocked mud, dozens of coyote tracks, narrower and more delicate than a dog’s, traced a complicated braid along the shoreline. Like the birds, they’d been drawn to the water by the smell of death, which the breeze carried across the sprawling ranchland.

The gorge rose in his throat. Gripping the bolt cutters, he pushed through the reeds into the murky, waist-high water.

The corpse bobbed on its back in the center of the pond, the heavy chain around the torso inadequate to counter the buoyancy of decay. The buttoned shirt strained against the bloat, and the elastic of the socks cut deeply into the swollen, purple flesh. Small fish and turtles had been diligent in their work. He tried not to look at the face.

“It’s not Adam anymore,” he whispered to himself as he worked the bolt cutters.

Once freed of the chain, the body floated easily across the surface of the pond. The water churned with silt as he struggled up the bank, cursing and grunting, the blackflies rising like smoke from the thick, sucking mud. After falling several times, he managed to tow his burden into the grass.

For a while, he sat, exhausted, not looking at what lay motionless beside him, keeping his eyes fixed on the sun as it sank towards the distant bluffs. He had planned this for days, but now he felt a strange reluctance. It had been peaceful, somehow, the ritual of his daily visits.

Unhooking the waders’ straps, he dug into his pocket to find the thing he had brought with him. He unrolled it and laid it carefully on his knee. It had gotten damp in his climb up the bank. He sat for several minutes, smoothing the velvety fur until it was dry.

Finally, from another pocket he produced a length of pale chiffon ribbon, shimmering and pink in the waning light. His hands shook, but he managed to roll up the small, furred object, tie it with the ribbon, and tuck it into the dead boy’s hand.

He looked up. The sun had vanished behind the bluffs, and the light was fading fast. With a sigh, he clambered to his feet and walked quickly away through the waving grass. The hiss and squabble of the birds began almost at once behind him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead. A few minutes later, as he stepped onto the road, he heard a distant coyote begin to wail.